Moon River
by Stephane Richer
Summary: There's that twitch of Tora's fingers, as if he's holding a basketball, the flick of the wrist as if to pass it to some phantom teammate. Harasawa knows these because he does this, too, sometimes, catches himself aimlessly in motion on the bench. (Harasawa/Kagetora)


Moon River

Disclaimer: Don't own the song "Moon River" or the manga _Kuroko no Basuke_.

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Of course Tora would stick around. Harasawa knows him well enough to know that he can't let go no matter how much he says he's going to, knows how much basketball pulls him back as he furiously denies it. He knows this because he knows how alike they are, how as they grow older they grow more and more similar even though their paths diverged and rerouted so many times when they were younger. They are the trees that inched their way upward however they could, bursting out from under the canopy and into the sunlight and the only thing for them to do now is to keep going straight up, even as they know they will be surpassed eventually. But such is reality.

There's that twitch of Tora's fingers, as if he's holding a basketball, the flick of the wrist as if to pass it to some phantom teammate. Harasawa knows these because he does this, too, sometimes, catches himself aimlessly in motion on the bench. But no one's ever watching him when he does this; they're all focused on their own games, as they should be (as he should be). But it's the double-edged sword of being a premier athlete, the self-obsession. One must devote hours, days, weeks, years of time into honing his or her own skills, and even when practicing with others one is still focused on one's self.

He makes sure his players know this, or at least he tries to. Lately, things have been out of whack. Wakamatsu's not worried about himself enough, and Aomine's not worried about the team enough-because the team and its goals are the reason an athlete practices. Perhaps not in an individual sport like singles tennis or gymnastics, but even then, the best players have something to prove and something other than themselves to fight for, some issue or some kind of patriotism or loyalty. If Aomine doesn't feel the need to practice he shouldn't (and, honestly, practicing with him going all-out might discourage some of the other players) but it's becoming a distraction, especially with Wakamatsu making a big deal out of it. Still, this early loss in the winter cup has kind of shocked things back into some sort of order. It's a shame they couldn't win for Imayoshi and Susa's last tournament, but you can't win them all, can you?

Tora still knows exactly what Harasawa wants, and where he'll be, casually shoving a can of his favourite brand of coffee into his hands. Tora's hands are still calloused and cracked (they had always gotten this way in winter, no matter how humid he would keep their room or how much lotion he'd put on them every night) and he still drinks the same brand of green tea. They don't sit and they don't talk and they don't look each other in the eye, not yet. Harasawa absentmindedly runs a hand through his hair, something he knows will be caught in Tora's peripheral vision. Tora grins and chuckles to himself, chugging the tea.

The clouds are streaked with purple, pink, and gold, casting a strange light on the two men.

"Do you see the past through rose-coloured glasses?" Harasawa asks.

"No," says Tora. "It happened; some of it was nice. Some of it I regret. But I can't relive it. I can't stay stuck here when everything else is moving forward."

"Your daughter doesn't play?"

"No. She's grown up around injury rehab; she knows what it the game can do to you, how it chews you up and doesn't spit all of you out." Tora doesn't sound bitter, merely matter-of-fact. Well, that's not quite right. There's a note of something, something Harasawa should be able to detect.

Oh. It's longing. Of course. Because no matter how banged-up their bodies get, no matter how much they give to the game and how little they get back, they would never do it over. They would never go back and change it, because their bodies will eventually break down anyway. What's so bad about speeding up the process? Does it really do much harm? After all, Harasawa is quite inclined to see that part of his past through rose-couloured glasses. Those were the years of his fondest memories, playing on the national team, playing with Tora. And in those days, it seemed like the game loved them back. The bright lights shone down and highlighted the sheen of sweat on their skin, and the ball came out of their hands and into the net smoothly. Their arms came up as they leaped in the air to block shots, and they passed without looking, having absolute confidence in their teammates' locations.

Those were the days, but they are gone now. The game now throws variables beyond their control, and they are like video game players, attempting to control the situation but unable to do so fully, training their players and indoctrinating them with the instructions and warnings that they will not heed until it's too late.

But that's neither here nor there. This is not about anyone other than them, and they can't make it about anyone other than them. Tora's finished with his tea, drops the can and crushes it beneath his foot. He's still got plenty of strength, still got a sure step. He bends over, and it takes him longer than it should to get up. Right, his back. But his aim is still right-on, and the crushed metal sails into the trash bin, landing with a thud among the other garbage. Even though the arthritis is settling into his hands (too early for such a man) and his grip is not as tight as it could be, it still goes through.

But for how much longer? How long have they deliberated, stayed apart because it was too painful to not be able to pass the ball between them like they used to? How much has it hurt to know that there's nowhere to go but down in their basketball skills? How much better would it have been if they had fallen down this steep decline together? Would the bumps and bruises and aches have hurt less?

They will never know.

"Kat-chan," Tora murmurs into his ear, brimming with affection in a way his words never used to even in their most intimate moments together. He leans his chin on Harasawa's shoulder, mussing the suit jacket. Harasawa smiles. He quickly debates with himself over whether to kiss Tora's cheek, but decides to save that for later. They're outside, now, anyway.


End file.
